Page 29 of Pucking Sweet

She nods, eyes glistening again. “Okay.”

“I’m not ready to sit on the therapy couch and spill out all my sadness to the whole team, okay?”

“Okay,” she says again.

Fuck, I need to get out of here. I turn away, crossing her kitchen in two strides.

“Colton.” Her hand brushes my arm as I pass. She’s not holding me back, but it’s a clear invitation to stay.

I stand there, not looking at her, feeling her standing next to me.

“Can I ask you to do one thing?”

I slowly turn, gazing down at her. She looks up at me with such openness—no doors, no guile. “Anything,” I hear myself say.

Her hand grazes up my arm to my shoulder and she gives it a gentle squeeze. “Tell one person, okay? Just one. Let them be there for you. Let them know to check in. Let them see when you’re hurting and help you stand when you feel like all you can do is fall.”

I search her face, memorizing the pattern of the summer freckles dotting her cheeks. She’s so beautiful. Holding her gaze, I cup her face with my large, calloused hand. I know I don’t deserve to touch her. I don’t deserve to hold her like this. I can’t be soft right now. I can’t be gentle.

She leans away, eyes wide, her back pressed up against the kitchen counter. She wraps her hand around my wrist. “Colton,” she says again, enunciating the “T.”

“I told you,” I say, my voice low.

The energy between us turns on a dime as her grip on my wrist tightens. My face lowers on its own. I just need to be a little closer, need to breathe her in. I brush my thumb against her cheek, feeling how it’s tanned and warm from running in the sun. She leans into the stroke of my thumb, eyes fluttering shut.

“You’re my person here, Poppy. My one. I toldyou.”

A moment stretches between us, pulled tight like the string of a kite caught on a gust of wind. Her eyes flash with need, and then I’m pressing my lips to hers, tipping her head back with urgency, desperate to taste all of her. Both her hands are at my shoulders, and she’s pulling me closer. Her mouth slants with mine as she returns my kiss.

Mykiss.

I’m kissing Poppy St. James.

With a desperate groan, I drop my hands to her hips and lift her right off the floor. The cookie trays rattle behind her as I put her up on the counter, stepping between her spread legs. She welcomes me in, her ankles hooking behind my knees as she makes room for me to press in with my hips.

“Oh god,” she says on a breathless sigh.

Fuck, she’s so soft, so supple. And yet, she knows what she wants. Her hands push and pull at me, stroking the nape of my neck. Her lips part and her tongue flicks. She’s so fucking eager. And she tastes so sweet, like wine and caramel. We keep kissing like we’ll die if we stop.

I need to feel her. I need more. My hands are still at her hips. I slip them both under the hem of her baggy sweater, my thumbs stroking over the impossible silkiness of her little pink camisole. She makes the perfect whimpering sound in my mouth as my thumbs stroke over her ribs. She arches into me, inching closer with her hips. Any closer, and she’ll feel how hard I am for her. My fingertips brush the bare skin under her arms, and I press in—

She jolts, gasping for air. “Colton, we can’t.”

I groan, my hold on her going from coaxing to claiming. “Please,” I beg, determined to brand myself on her lips.

“Colton, wait,” she pants, her hands now pushing at my shoulders. “Stop.”

That one little word hits me like a bucket of ice water poured down my back. I instantly lift both hands away from her, spreading my arms wide. She reels from the loss of my support, her hold on me tightening. Her ankles brush the backs of my thighs as we rebalance ourselves.

I press my forehead lightly against hers, eyes shut tight. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” she says in a small voice, still holding onto me.

I inch back, my hands kept well away from her. “No, Poppy, I’m so sorry. I had no right.”

She’s trembling. Fuck, did I scare her? In her eyes, I see heat and passion. No fear.Thank god. But there’s hesitancy too. I step back fully. Her hands brush down my chest as I pull away. I drop my hands to my sides in defeat. Slowly, she lets her hands fall too. She sits there on the edge of the counter, her bare legs dangling. Her parted lips are still wet with my kisses. Her blue eyes watch me, always searching my face, always trying to read me.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, taking another step back. My hip bumps the corner of her fridge.

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